


Under the Stars

by lost_spook



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/F, Ficlet, Meme, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:24:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_spook/pseuds/lost_spook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Our first date is a picnic on a beach under the stars? Have you swallowed a romance novel? Do I need to call a doctor?” (Clara/Missy)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under the Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JohnAmendAll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/gifts).



Clara opened her mouth to reply, but since there were at least six things she needed to say in response to that, she floundered for a minute as to which one, before finally settling on the most important. “This,” she said, through gritted teeth, “is not a date. _Definitely_ not a date.”

“Isn’t it?” said Missy, sitting down on the blanket. She gave Clara a smile that, much to Clara’s dismay, made her shiver in ways that were not entirely due to horror. “What is it, then?”

Clara found herself at a loss for words for the second time in five minutes, which was the sort of thing that only usually happened with the Doctor. “I wanted to say something.”

“Did you?” said Missy, watching Clara. “On a blanket, under the stars, with a picnic basket?”

“That part was an accident.”

Missy considered that. “How odd. I usually have to plan these things.”

Why had there been a blanket and a picnic basket? Clara felt suddenly unsure. She shook her head and tried to think. It was surprisingly hard work.

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Missy. “Thinking about it, I mean. It’ll only give you a headache. So much easier if you let me explain.”

That, thought Clara, was a bad, _bad_ idea, and not at all what she’d had in mind. But then she didn’t know now what exactly she _had_ had in mind and all she was managing to do was give a pretty good impression of a deer caught in the headlights.

“As dates go,” said Missy, still smiling, “it’s promising despite the company, I’ll grant you. When viewed in certain lights.” She glanced upwards, and it was as if the stars up there reflected in her eyes, just for a moment.

 _Whose date is it?_ thought Clara blurrily, but she didn’t move away. She couldn’t. She could barely even breathe. Then, sternly, trying to remind herself, more than anything else: _It’s not a date! It’s a – a disaster in the making._ She couldn’t seem to say it aloud, however.

“Poor wee Puppy,” said Missy, tilting her head to one side, watching Clara. “Cat got your tongue?”

Clara didn’t pull away from the hand that reached out to touch her. She closed her eyes, because if she kept them open, if she kept looking at Missy, she felt dizzy.

“It’s like the Wicked Witch and Red Riding Hood,” murmured Missy, her hand still on one of Clara’s cheeks, and kissing the other. “Only more fun and with less gobbling up of grandmothers. Well, maybe a little bit of gobbling. Some nibbling at least, maybe. Definitely some biting. How do you feel about biting?”

Clara wanted to say that there would be absolutely no biting or anything else of the kind but instead fell back against the blanket, her best friend’s best enemy still caressing her cheek in a way that was currently gentle but promised at some point to become less so. She had a feeling there might well be scratching as well as biting. However, protesting was a lost cause. Her throat had gone dry, too much so for her to get the words out, and besides, she seemed to be melting into the red woollen material underneath her. The worst thing was, despite the sliver of cold fear that persisted in her mind, it felt _good_. Maybe it even felt good because of the sliver of cold fear. She didn’t know and she wasn’t entirely sure she cared.

“Sometimes,” said Missy in Clara’s ear, before she nipped at the lobe with sharp teeth, “I can play nice. I can play awfully, devilishly nice. Just ask the Doctor.”

 _Oh God_ , Clara thought; a last, faint protest before she tumbled willingly into utter incoherence.


End file.
